


the wworst

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Dysphoria, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Sexism, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:59:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7314373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my god,” you say out loud. “We are the two most insecure assholes on this side of the fucking planet.”</p><p>“The planetary system,” Eridan wails good-naturedly.</p><p>“The entire goddamn galaxy,” you trump him. “We are the best at being the worst.”</p><p>--</p><p>They both hate their bodies, and they've been hurt so much over them. And each of them barely dares to whisper it, lest the other one leave them alone to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wworst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secondhandact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/gifts).



The way Kar touches you is too tender by half, claws carefully pulled back from your skin and fingertips skating along the edges of your earfins. It’s the prelude to one of his kisses—your matesprit needs to patent them, seriously, they’re like ~~magic~~ _science_ , flooding your mouth with the overwhelming flush of him and making your vascular work hard to keep up. Even just the quick smear of his lips against yours makes your chest tighten with anticipation, and by the time he pries your mouth open with his tongue, the bases of your horns are throbbing.

This is normal. For the two of you, at least. Sky the vague lavender-gray that hovers before a dawn, both of you laid out shirtless on the concupiscent platform waiting for the sopor to cycle so you can sleep without dreaming, and Kar showering you with affection like you deserve it. But just because it’s Kar, and just because he’s too nice to you, doesn’t mean you’re about to get used to this anytime soon. Every time his mouth moves away from yours, you’re convinced this is the last time you’ll know the taste of his pity, even when he starts to lick his way down your neck and flick his tongue delicately against the filaments of your gills. “Ah—Kar, don’t—”

He stops. Which is weird for you, that he stops, that you don’t have to physically shove him away to make him remember that his body belongs to him and your body belongs to you and he only gets the parts of it that you give him. (Not that the shoving always worked, mind, but it was something, at the very least.) “Too sensitive?” he rasps out.

“No,” because that wasn’t quite it. You don’t know why you can’t just enjoy this. You wonder when he’s going to walk out because of his frustration.

Kar tries to soothe you out of your head, runs his hands down your sides and strokes the backs of his fingers against the tines of your ribs; you sigh out, hard, so hard your side opercula open for him, but he doesn’t try to dart in and touch. You’re nearly out of your pan with just the tiny sensations Kar’s spoon-feeding you, and that’s before he starts kissing you again, warming you up and making your pulse run colder in counterpoint. You card your hands through his hair, find his nubby horns, and hold on for dear life.

His hands are brands along your skin. Anyone would run hot compared to you, you’re as seadweller as they come, but Kar in particular makes heat flare at the base of your torso column. His palms follow the tuck of your waist, the jut of your hips, and he sighs out “fuck, you’re so _pretty_.”

Your body goes on lockdown and your thinkpan scrambles itself trying to make the world stop.

When Kar moves to nuzzle against the space behind your earfin, he takes the opportunity to whisper to you. “Eridan. Hey, asshole. You in there?”

Maybe. He can keep touching you if he wants. Because you’re _pretty_. Your hands push against his scalp, hold his teeth to your throat, and even though you feel sick you don’t want him to stop.

The pads of Kar’s opposable prongs knead against the bones of your hips. “That was a serious question,” he follows up with, “are you okay? Because right now you’re trying to rip my gray matter out through my horns.”

You’re kind of not okay, but that doesn’t matter. Kar deserves better, and so you’re going to _be_ better, let him do what he wants with you. But the more you try to lock yourself out of this, the more Kar is determined to make you be utterly present for it, now massaging his hands in broad swaths from your hips up to your waist and back down like he could rub some warmth into you. You might overheat like this, but if he wants you to be _pretty_ , you can be _pretty_.

Kar tosses his head, gets you out of his hair, and draws back just enough so he can look at you. The gray of his eyes is _phenomenal_ —the stubborn bastard is so determined to stay hemononymous that he forced his eyes to fill with an anti-color through sheer force of will. The look he gives you is as red as the quadrant comes. “Fishface, I’m fucking serious. You’re freaking me out.”

“Sorry,” comes out of you, higher than you meant, softer than you anticipated, and you hate yourself all over again.

“Hey,” Kar says, quiet but amiable. Like you didn’t just fuck up, and badly. “Just tell me what I did so I don’t do it again, I’m not about to try and pail someone who’s just going to lay there like a dead fish and think determinedly about the drones.”

There’s not even drones in this new world you created. Everything is still horrible, of course, but not in the same ways it was on Alternia, or even on Beforus according to your alt set. A Peixes oligarchy is going a long way to fixing a lot of the social issues, but there’s still some adults who are unwaveringly hemoist and demand to know Kar’s blood color on sight, even though he doesn’t owe that to anyone. Contributions are still collected, but not on threat of death anymore, at least.

Which doesn’t quite explain the dread winding around your bones. “Don’t w-wanna talk aboat it,” comes out eventually, like pulling teeth. He’s going to leave you when he finds out. They all do.

Kar sighs. Just… sighs. Cuddles close, but breathes your air. His body is so warm against yours. Anyone’s would, you’re so coldblooded, but Kar in particular makes your blood run hot. Maybe it’s his aspect reaching out to you, trying to kindle some fire in you, but the spark won’t light. “I know you don’t,” he says eventually, not unkindly. “But I would kind of like to make you spill somenight in the near future, and I can’t do that if you’re going to freeze up on me. Literally, you’re freezing right now, holy shit.”

“Sorry.” You feel like you should apologize, at least. And you don’t want him to leave, but you say “go cocoon,” anyway, with a promise that “I’ll be right there.”

“And then you’re going to tell me, right?”

“Shore.” Maybe not all of it, but you can try.

At least it’s easier to think when he’s not pressed right up against you. Easier to reason through what you want when he’s not right here expecting something from you. Still hard to find the words, because no matter how you put it, it’ll sound stupid. Who gets hurt by _words?_

(Someone who’s been catcalled with ‘hey pretty lady’ in the streets because of his thin waist and broad hips, someone who’s gotten more than his fair share of assgrabs on the Transitrain from people who then hiss ‘trap’ at him once he turns around and glares, someone who’s been told his nook is the sweetest little cunt anyone could ever fuck and _fuck you’re so tight_ , _it’s good that it hurts, babe, you’re so pretty._ )

Your skin is clammy again, cold with memory. The sopor will be even colder by now, and you want to numb yourself in it. Kar’s already curled into his ‘coon by the time you get in the room, neck laying against the rim and leaving his head poking out. “Come to sleep,” he says, eyes closed. His dayclothes are already soaked through.

It’s easier to strip when he’s not looking. (You think he might feel the same way: he always tells you to look away when he changes for coon, even though you’ve been matesprits for near half a sweep now.) You’re down to briefs by the time you dip your toes in your sleepslime, and it welcomes you, clinging to your form. “Do w-we havta talk?” You hate the warble that gets into your voice when you get nervous. You dip your gills beneath the sopor to stop from glubbing so much; the chemicals hit your filaments, seep into you faster, and you feel calmer immediately.

“Would be nice,” Kar grumbles. You can see the gray shadow of his body in his coon, lithe but definitely masculine.

“Um,” and you had this, you _had_ this, but words and telling Kar and wanting him to understand and it’s hard, it hurts too much. “I’m kinda…” How much of a fucking pussy do you want to be about this? “It’s—I don’t—my—my, uh. Everyfin. I know I look… girly.” Kar’s not saying anything. Getting this out is easier if you pretend he’s not listening and that you’re just telling the dawn filtering into the room. “My hips and, and my waist, and my, my ass, and even my face, my earfins are so delicate, and my lips, and my fuckin’ _cheekbones_ , everyfin. All I don’t have is rumblespheres an’ that doesn’t stop people from thinkin’ I’m a chick. An’ even when I’m tryin’ to pail, it’s all about my nook, no one wants nofin to do with my bulge.”

You can hear the slosh as Kar shifts in his coon, and it shuts you up immediately, like he just crammed a fistful of silence down your throat. “Did he say what I said?”

 _You’re so pretty._ The only thing you’re good for. You start making an inventory of all the things you’ve left at his hive so you know what to pack when he kicks you out. “Stop.”

“I…” This might be the first time you’ve heard Kar without something to say. “Shit, Eridan, I didn’t know, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“’s not a big deal,” and you shrink into yourself. This is it. This is goodbye.

“It is a huge fucking deal,” and you don’t want Kar to rant about this, the one thing you don’t want to discuss, the only thing you want to absolutely forget, “Eridan, why didn’t you _tell me_ —“

“Maybe because it’s none ‘a your fuckin’ business,” you point out, and get ready to dunk yourself.

Kar just keeps blathering, though. “I am absolutely not in the business of making you uncomfortable.” Wait, shit, this wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. He’s supposed to tell you to get out of his spare coon, or that you can only stay the day because it’s too dangerous to go outside right now, or maybe he’d kick you out anyway. “Can I—can I maybe—is it the words, or where I touched you, or—“

“I don’t know-w.” You wish you did, it would make this whole process easier. At the end of the night, though, you just want it to stop. The misgendering, the casual sexism, the accusations and slurs, the growing discomfort with your own body. You just want to look more masculine, but it would probably help a lot if Kar at least treated you like you were. And it’s stupid. Really stupid. Leave people over it stupid, that he can’t use the words he wants just because they make you a little uneasy. “I just—anything to make me not think about bein’ so fuckin’ _feminine_.”

“So,” Kar says through a yawn, “maybe I can get your bulge in my mouth and that’ll make your brain shut up.”

You promptly aspirate sopor and spend a good quarter of an hour spluttering it out of your air bladders while Kar smirks at you lasciviously enough to get the mother grub with clutch.

\--

He’s starting to get a little suspicious that you never take off your clothes around him.

It makes him feel like a prince, surely. Which is what he deserves. You treating every part of his body like you’re flushed for it just because it belongs to him, worshiping every square inch of skin and every drop of slurry you can wring from him. And fuck, the way he looks at you right now, violet eyes wide as you dart your tongue out of your mouth to greet his bulge—that’s what makes you feel powerful.

If you can focus on this, maybe you can make him forget. Eridan’s slim form writhes under you, bones jutting out from his skin, and you think he’s gorgeous but you can’t say that anymore unless you can find the right words to stop his thinkpan from doing a nope. His bulge tastes like sea salt and purple Faygo, an overconcentrated syrup that insinuates its way into your taste flagellator and your sniffnodes until you feel surrounded by him and only him. One of his hands comes up to trace your brow ridge as you let the tip of his bulge French your tongue a little, kissing his parts like you’d kiss his mouth, and his mouth starts to hang a little open. “Kar, _fuck_ ,” he tells you, heavy with meaning.

You can do that. With your tongue, you push his bulge out of your mouth, but only so you can run your lips along the length of it, slurping at it like it’s your favorite flavor of coagulated frozen moobeast juice. (That’s not entirely wrong. You think this might actually be your favorite taste in the entire multiverse, the mouthfeel that lets you know you are about to make Eridan come _hard_.) It’s weird being so quiet, but all the energy you’d normally put into talking? Goes straight into worshiping Eridan with your mouth where he’s most sensitive.

He runs fingers through your hair, hunting for your horns, and curls his hands into fists when he can’t find them right away. Like this, he can steer your lips against him until his bulge finds your mouth again, pushes in. You open wide and _let him_ and he might actually start _crying_ with how good it feels. “Fuck, your mouth, Kar, your mouth is so _hot_ , fuck, I’m burning up—“

You have to stop and breathe. His bulge pushes further into your mouth, starts trickling material down your throat, and you sniff in air—a little thick, since the shaft of his bulge is trying to massage your soft palate and it makes your adenoids drip snot down your face. Not because you’re upset. Couldn’t be. He’s a highblood, he’d think _anyone_ is hot compared to him, he doesn’t know, _he can’t know_ —

Eridan lets out this fluting cry that you bet sounds even better underwater as you swallow. Part snot, part seadweller cum, no regret, one hundred percent intoxicating. Maybe he won’t notice you’re about to cry, maybe you can just get left alone afterwards. “Kar,” and he says it like he’s saying _please_ , like he’s praying to an ancient god, and you don’t deserve it, but if you work him harder, he stops saying your name and starts this wordless, lilting moan, almost a song in the way it spirals around your hearducts.

His bulge pulses against your tongue; a jet of slurry heads down your throat. He was trying to warn you. This, this is what you wanted, you wanted him to just let go, you wanted him to feel like he was on top of the world, and he—he’s _there_ , because of _you_ , because of what you just did. You yank up the red-rustoleum bucket and spit him out of your mouth, pull his contribution out of him with your fingers and your tongue, and it seems to go on forever, not just one or two quick torrents but a slow ebb and flow, nearly tidal. The hint of a predatory purr under Eridan’s tone right now is—how could anyone think he’s a girl when he growls like this?

(It’s his hatchright. He deserves it. And you deserve to be right here, his cum in your mouth, serving him so he doesn’t notice how much you’re trying to hide.)

Eridan’s still catching his breath from the force of his spill, gills flapping open to try and re-oxygenate his blood, but he’s reaching out for you, wiping his pre-mat off of your face and yanking you up to kiss you. His mouth is freezing against yours, and he thoughtlessly mumbles “so warm” against you, and you get locked inside your own head, because—you don’t know how much he still cares, but when you were grubs he kind of wanted to commit genocide against lowbloods, and what if you’re just a fetish for him? What if your blood color ignites his dormant dominance, touches on a primal instinct to murder you for what you look like?

He can never find out, which is why you push away his hands when he starts to (clumsily) undress you. “No, don’t,” you tell him, “this was for you, I’m good, I’m okay, this—do you want more, I’ll do it again,” anything to stop him from getting you naked, because your bulge is trying to peek out and the folds of your nook have already parted and he’ll see, he’ll know, he _can’t_ , you _won’t_ —

The hands retreat, roam over your clothes instead. You think it might be post-coital mating affection that makes him smother you like this. “Why not,” and the look he gives you should probably be criminalized because it’s not fair how it makes your guts flutter.

“It’s just—my—I’m still—I don’t—“

“Oh,” and Eridan reaches up, thumb next to your eyes, he loves your eyes so much, the one defense mechanism you have against him, “you still—you w-wanna stay—don’t w-want me to know-w your bloodcaste, mm?”

“Yeah.” That’s exactly it. You want to stay hemononymous. Mostly because you’re afraid he might actually hurt you if you don’t.

He mushes his mouth up against yours, more of a nuzzle than a snog, and when he pulls back, he’s making the doofiest blissed face you ever did see on a seadweller. “W-wait right here,” and he—he leans over, gets his clothes—winds his scarf around his face—“Now-w can I, uh—“

Holy shit. He just. Eridan just. Blindfolded himself. To make you feel better. About being a fucking mutant. Because he wants to get you off.

You might actually explode.

His blind fingers grope for you again, slip into the place between the hem of your shirt and the waist of your pants, oh god it feels so good and a swoop of guilt homes itself in your guts. “You don’t have to,” you say weakly, even as your bulge unsheathes in a sudden lash that leaves you dizzy.

“I w-want to,” Eridan says, and rolls you onto your back as his hand slips into your pants. The temperature difference between the two of you gets intensified the closer he gets to your core; your bulge, looping around his fingers, feels like it’s being tempered, like hot steel into cold water. “You’re burning up, Kar, I just w-wanna make you feel good, it’s—can I get my fingers—“

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, because you never imagined, you never dreamed—Eridan’s clawtips delicately feel out the slick divide of your seedflaps, sink into your folds, slide along until he finds the rim of your nook, and you seize up when he enters you.

It feels so different from when you do it, he’s so careful with you, he wants to learn you by body memory instead of just being in here to take care of business with a quick in and out, and the plunge of his finger feels exquisite. “Like that?”

“Just like that,” you can—you can calm your racing pulse, you can enjoy this, you can quell the thrill of fear running along your torso column with every tender place he touches inside of you, and the more you react to his touch the more he delicately plays you, like you’re an instrument, like he could tune your meaningless noises into some sort of scale.

He pushes in, draws back, slow and sure. You wonder if this is how he touches himself. You wonder if this is how you’ll die, a slow choking heart attack instead of a wand at your throat, why does it turn you on so much that you’re going to have someone else make you spill before you get murdered? Eridan pulls his hand back—it pulls at the front wall of your nook and your everything throbs at the touch—and crowds his whole body against you, holding you down. “Do you w-want—“

“Don’t stop,” you gasp out, you’re so close from so little, willing to let this be the last.

Eridan pushes back in—two, two fingers instead of one, and it feels amazing, you never want him to stop, you’re rushing closer, almost there, “w-wanna spill in your clothes, then—“

Oh fuck, he’s right, you’re—your color, everywhere, painted all over you, maybe it’ll just be dark against the black of your jeans, and that, _that_ stupid little bit of relief, is all it takes for you to unhinge on the inside. It’s like he unplugged a wellspring in you, and it rushes out past his fingers every time he fucks them into you. Three quick, overwhelming bursts, but because of the way Eridan’s fingers are stopping you up, it drools out around him slow, a thick ooze. He never stops fucking you, not even when the delicate inside of you becomes drastically oversensitive to his touch, it feels so good, it feels amazing, you’re so _alive_ when you don’t deserve to be.

Eridan smothers your face in kisses from his plush lips as you thrash your way through your contribution. When he pulls his fingers out, they’re—fuck, no, _fuck_ —absolutely _coated_ in your material, a blasphemous red, and he—he—you’re going to pass out, _he puts them in his mouth_ and fucking _sucks them clean_ , your material smearing over his lips. When he kisses you next, he tastes like—well, he tastes like _you_ , the essence of you, determination and loyalty and fear.

What if you blinded him. What if you made him wear that stupid scarf around his eyes for the rest of his life instead of around his throat. But he pushes up the knit with his wrist and your pusher drops to your toes because.

He’s looking at his hand, still smeared with your red.

His mouth gapes. You don’t know how to close it, if he wants you to kiss him ever again based on what he knows now. You wonder if you can pass the color off as rust, with the way his skin glows violet under your color, if you can joke about it.

But all he says is “Kar, w-why didn’t you just _tell me_ ,” mirroring your exact tone from yesterday.

You bury your face in his stupid dumb stupid stupid dumb scarf, try to pretend like you’re not crying. You have no idea what you’re even feeling right now. Relief? Disappointment? Terror? You pity him, so much, _too_ much, and all you ever wanted was to help him not feel so alone, but now that he knows, he can—he can make you surrender to the authorities so you can get culled properly, placed with someone else who can take care of you because you’re some degenerate mutantblood—“don’t look at me like that,” is what comes out of your mouth, hysterical, dangerous.

“Like w-what?” he glubs innocently. Then, “Kar, it’s okay, w-we can—I’ll—I didn’t mean to find out, I sw-wear, please, Kar, don’t—don’t leav-ve me—“

“Leave you?” Fuck. Holy fucking shit. He still thinks you’re about to abandon him because he’s a finicky, flighty son of a fish. “No, I’m pretty sure you’re stuck with me now. Now that you—that you _know_.”

Eridan glubs a little. “Good,” he says weakly, then “good” again with a more even tone. “Less stuck with,” he says, “more like—more like I—I know-w. And I’m gonna stay w-with you anyw-way. Because it’s w-what I w-want.”

“Don’t get all sappy on me,” you warn him, because if he starts quoting at you from your trashy romance novels you might actually have a full-on conniption and be useless for the rest of the perigee.

“Me? Nev-ver.” Eridan grabs his cape, wraps it around the both of you—him with his chilly bare skin, you with your soaked-through cum-stained pants. “An’ I’m here as long as you’ll hav-ve me. If you still w-want me.”

“Oh my god,” you say out loud. “We are the two most insecure assholes on this side of the fucking planet.”

“The planetary system,” Eridan wails good-naturedly.

“The entire goddamn galaxy,” you trump him. “And that includes those stupid peachy turds I had the misfortune to shit out.”

“Hey now,” Eridan says. “What system is New Beforus in?”

“Too far away,” you grumble, curling his cape around you. It smells so good. “We need to go to a galaxy cluster before we catch those fuckers in our net. We are the best at being the worst.”

“The best at bein’ the w-worst.” You can feel him smiling against your shoulder. “But I’m better.”

“Slander.” It comes out through a yawn. Maybe the two of you can just be shitheads and sleep on the concupiscent platform like some degenerate humans. “I am clearly the worst.”

“The best?”

“The best,” you agree finally, and get tangled in his clothes when you try to shove him off the bed.


End file.
